Their Own Place
by Jay-Washington
Summary: Feeling estranged from the rest of the people who returned for the eighth year, Draco Malfoy heads to the Quidditch Pitch, the only place he feels at home. But it seems that he won't be able to get away from one of his problems: Harry Potter.
1. Return to Pitch

Draco was starting to think that returning for an eighth year at Hogwarts might've been a mistake. He'd never been the biggest fan of Hogwarts, but being at the school—however quiet it was after the final battle—was better than being at home, trapped in the cursed silence between his parents.

He'd known that he would be among the small few of his class to return for the supplemental year, but he'd never expected one of those few to be Harry Potter. He'd expected to see Hermione—he would've been surprised if she _hadn't_ shown up—but not even in Draco's wildest dreams had he imagined that Harry would be there too.

Even more incredulous was the thought that if Draco were to try to talk to Harry, Harry would actually want to _talk_ to Draco. The most Draco could hope for was a nod of acknowledgement, especially after everything that had happened between them: the rejected handshake, the entirety of their fifth year, the broken nose.

But there were also a few, recent good things—the time at the Manor and, of course, the moment when he'd made the decision to throw Harry his wand. He didn't want to think about which memories Harry would remember first.

And so, Draco once again found himself on the empty Quidditch Pitch, one of the few places that he'd actually missed. On the Pitch, he didn't have to be Draco Malfoy. He wasn't a son trying to make up for the mistakes of his father, or even the boy who had been chosen to help someone else fight against their destiny.

No, out here, he could just be a boy on his broom.

If Draco were honest with himself, he wished he had someone to be there with him. As he took his time lacing up his riding gloves, Draco found his thoughts one again wandering back to Harry Potter.

He shook his head. He couldn't afford to have thoughts about Harry Potter, especially not when Harry Potter probably wasn't even thinking about him. And why would he? Harry's destiny had been written long before Draco had met him.

For Draco, however, it seemed that the stars had a different plan. And, it turned out, a cruel sense of humor.

Despite his obvious talent, Harry Potter still wasn't the smartest or the most powerful wizard. Draco was pretty sure Harry only knew one spell, and it was one that he tirelessly overused. Harry would never fit in with the admittedly snobbish company that Draco was used to being around—even if he changed his clothes, he'd be hopelessly lost in Draco's world.

And still, Draco knew, without a doubt, that he was hopelessly in love with him. With Harry James Potter.

It hadn't been until his sixth year, in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, that he'd first realized it. Myrtle was trying her best to console him, but there were someone else's arms that Draco had longed for. When he'd looked up into the mirror, he saw _him_.

Harry James Potter. _The Chosen One_.

And in that moment, as Harry stared at him, wand raised, with a face contorted with confusion and anger at the same time, Draco hated him.

He hated him for being there to see his weakness, for being this pestering shadow since the beginning of the year. But most of all, Draco hated himself for knowing how relieved he was that Harry was there with him.

Draco took his feelings—his suffering, his hatred, his anguish—and pushed it into his magic as he raised his wand. He wanted Harry to feel the same way he did: " _Cruci_ —"

" _Sectumsempra_ ," Harry yelled, his wand barely rising in time to point at Draco before the spell completed.

Upon the spell's contact, Draco's face and chest had suddenly begun to spurt out blood, and he collapsed on the bathroom floor. As he had lain there on that waterlogged floor, blinded by pain, one thing had slowly begun to come into focus: Harry James Potter.

Harry Potter was leaning over him, his eyes flooded with tears. It was then that Draco had realized he truly hated the idea of Harry being hurt. His body trembled with pain and fear, but he was grateful that he was on the floor and not Harry.

He never wanted to cause Harry Potter pain.

The sound of someone else's footsteps snapped Draco back to attention. He threw a glance over his shoulder to see who it was and almost messed up his laces as he caught Harry's eyes.

Harry cleared his throat and nodded his head toward the riding gloves. "Need help with your laces?"

"No," Draco said immediately, definitively. He pulled the final loop into a tight knot, grabbed his broom, and shuffled past Harry. He had half a mind to leave, but to do so now would be even more embarrassing. He only hoped Harry wouldn't follow him.

Yet again, fate took the chance to laugh at him. It wasn't long before Harry joined Draco on the Pitch. For a while, Draco tried flying around the outer ring, doing tricks every so often in an attempt to dissuade Harry from following him. But when it became obvious to Draco that Harry wasn't going to give up—the persistence that he was both in awe of and annoyed with—he leaned back into a stop. It was then, as Harry met him on the same level, that Draco realized Harry was covered in a thick layer of dust.

"Honestly, Potter," Draco muttered as he pulled out his wand, "what did you do to yourself? Go for a romp in the Forbidden Forest? _Tergeo_." A flow of white steam emerged from the tip of his wand, syphoning the dust from Harry's body.

Harry scratched the back of his neck and said, "I've been looking for you, actually."

Had he been on the ground, Draco was sure his knees would've turned into water. As it was, he had a difficult time maintaining his balance on the broom. "And you thought you'd find me in that cesspit of filth?"

"Well, I had a feeling you were here, but everyone I asked said they hadn't seen you on the grounds, so I went there."

Draco's thin eyebrow rose in amusement. "I didn't realize you were so fond of me, Potter."

"I was trying to thank you," said Harry indignantly. When he realized Draco didn't have anything to say to that, Harry pressed on. "I've been trying to do that for weeks now, actually, but you can be an incredibly hard person to track down."

Draco shrugged and put his wand back into his robes. "Well, no use beating around the bush, Potter. If you've got something to say, now's the time."

"The Room of Requirement," Harry blurt out, as if that was the answer to all of Draco's questions. "You tried to stop the Fiendfyre."

"Don't thank me for something I didn't succeed in doing. Besides, I didn't thank you for getting me out of the room."

"You still can," said Harry as he moved to circle around Draco. "I'd love to hear you actually compliment my flying for once."

Draco couldn't help but snort at that. "In your dreams, Potter. Your balance was absolutely abysmal."

Harry jolted forward as his broom suddenly came to an almost screeching halt. "I was carrying you," he sputtered accusingly. "Not to mention we were in a room full of fire!"

Draco turned his broom around and started to fly toward the goal posts. "I never knew you were one to make excuses, Potter," he said over his shoulder. "But there's no need to be embarrassed—your amateur flying skills are to be expected after you spent so long out of practice."

"Yeah, well, I'm still out of practice," Harry admitted as he moved himself back into Draco's view. "But if it bothers you so much, I could always come by the Manor. I'm sure your Mum's got you the biggest field to fly on at home."

"No," Draco said, laughing into his sweater, "she'd kill me if I flew too close to her gardens."

Harry didn't miss a beat: "We'll just have to find our own place to practice, then."

"What, with you and Weasel King? And, I assume, Granger as well?"

"They don't have to," Harry said with a shrug. "I actually meant just the two of us. We could find our own place to practice."

" _Our_ own place," he whispered. "I'm not sure such a thing exists. What you're looking for is impossible, Potter."

Harry threw his head back and laughed, the loud, rambunctious laugh that Draco had only witnessed a few times in his life—always watching from the side. "We live in a world of _magic_. For crying out loud, Draco, we're flying on brooms! If _that's_ not impossible, how can you say anything else is?"

Draco's head snapped up, just in time to see Harry's face burn red. "What did you just say?"

"Just that we're flying on brooms."

"Not that, idiot." Draco leaned forward on his handle until he was close enough to make out Harry's scar. "You called me Draco just now."

Harry tried to wave his hand dismissively, but Draco wasn't the least bit convinced by the movement. "Don't think anything of it, Malfoy."

"You can't go back on it now, _Potter_ ," said Draco with a smirk. "You've already said it once—might as well commit to it now."

"You've said my name too," Harry pointed out.

Draco pulled back on his broom and turned his body so that he swiveled away from Harry. "Yes, but I've never used it on its own."

He was two broom lengths away from Harry, far enough away that if the wind hadn't stilled between them, Draco wouldn't have heard Harry whisper, "I wish you would."

"Yeah, well, it's about time you don't get something you wished for." With a firm push, Draco guided his broom to the ground. He had to get away from the Pitch, from Harry Potter. He'd lost too much of himself—he'd almost forgotten that this shared moment of emotional intimacy could only exist here. Once they got back to the school, the walls would return.

"Listen, mate— _Draco_ ," Harry said suddenly. "Things don't have to be this way."

"Well, of course _you'd_ say that," Draco spit out. "Everything's always come easy to you, hasn't it, Potter?"

Harry blocked his path when Draco tried to move past him. "You think anything I've gotten in my life has come easily for me? My parents—"

"Spare me yet _another_ retelling of your pitiful orphan status, Potter. Believe it or not, it does get old. And I've got plenty enough to feel sorry about without you shoving _that_ in my face as well." He leaned his broom against its placeholder, but couldn't seem to remove his fist from the handle.

Finally, Harry broke the silence: "I'm sorry. I just don't want to see you get mixed in with the wrong sort again."

Draco's heart leapt in its cage. In the space between them, Harry filled it by extending his hand. "I can help you," Harry said. "I want to help you. And I know you want it, too."

A dry laugh passed through Draco's teeth. "Thanks, but I think I can tell the wrong kind for myself."

"I'm serious, Draco! I should've taken your hand in our first year—I'm trying to offer mine now. I'm sorry I didn't try to be your friend before. I was young and stupid and was so caught up in being the Boy Who Lived and what that meant in this war that I didn't realize you weren't given much of a choice either."

Harry's hand began to tremble, but he kept it out in front of him. "I wish I could go back and change things, but I can't. All I can do now is try to make up for it. I'm sorry that it took me eighteen years to realize that, all this time, you and I have wanted the same things, fought for the same cause."

Draco was shaking too now. There was no way Harry Potter had figured out the truth—unless Hermione had deduced it a long time ago and told him herself. He licked his lips and tried to settle his nerves as he said, "And what would that be?"

"Love," said Harry, his green eyes shifting up to meet Draco's. "All this time, we've both been trying to do what we thought was best in order to protect the people we love. And, if you'll allow me to, I still want to do that. With you."

A weight settled over Draco's heart. "I already told you, Potter—it's about time you don't get what you want."

Guilt flooded over him, but Draco knew better than to give into it now. He couldn't get Harry involved in his family, in his past. He knew the world—Wizard or Muggle—would never have a place to offer them. It was hopeless. The Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Had No Choice were never meant to have been friends.

Or anything more than that.

 **A/N: I've probably just made so many of you mad right now, but never fear! I will return to this (current) oneshot and expand it into a novel if enough people want me to do this. I don't want to leave our babies like this.**


	2. Lonely

If Harry called out for him, Draco didn't hear him. He kept his head turned downwards as his feet tread up the path from the Quidditch Pitch and back towards the castle, not bothering to look up to see where he was going. Though Hogwarts wasn't quite home for Draco, it was, at the very least, familiar.

Familiar enough that he didn't have to put much thought into where he was going. But also familiar enough that, if he didn't pay attention, he could end up exactly where he didn't want to be.

Like the Slytherin Common Room. Or, as Draco had begun to think of it in recent years, the designated spot for pushing aside his feelings for Harry.

Whenever Draco had had a particularly frustrating encounter with the Chosen One, he'd always been able to find solace here. But instead of going inside, he turned bitterly away from the door.

Before, he would've strode into the common room and been immediately sought out by Crabbe and Goyle. Thick as they might have been, they had always been a much-welcomed distraction, especially when he wanted to get his mind off of Harry Potter. But Crabbe was gone now, destroyed by the Fiendfyre he'd conjured, and Goyle hadn't returned.

And things were different now.

Ever since the final battle, many of the Slytherin students had tried to distance themselves from the house, every trip to the dungeons a painful reminder of where they had been forced to stand while their classmates and comrades had fought for their lives above them. Most of the house didn't come to the common room until they absolutely had to.

The few Slytherins who were in the common room whenever Draco was there looked at him with fear and not revelry, whispering about him in groups from their little secluded corners. Even Snape's portrait, moved at the request of the older students from McGonagall's office to hang above their fireplace, seemed to always look at him in disdain, though this could be due to the perpetual scowl that had been painted on the portrait.

Draco let out a long sigh and glanced at the suit of armor beside him. He wanted to go somewhere else, anywhere else. Normally, he would've headed to the Great Hall, but he would bet anything that that was where Potter was now, eating with the rest of the school.

Still, with no other distractions, Draco realized that the Great Hall might be his best option.

"Come on, Draco, you damned fool, pull yourself together," he growled as he glared at himself in the reflection. He was all out of sorts, and for what? Potter's dirty cheeks? His messy, dark hair? His infuriatingly vibrant eyes?

Draco let out a loud groan, so frustrated that he didn't resist the urge to run a hand through his hair, releasing it from his hair gel's final attempts to keep it in place after a long day.

"Have you forgot the password," someone asked behind him.

He spun around to see Pansy Parkinson. In an instant, Draco felt all of his weak and pitiful feelings shrivel away, leaving behind the familiar sense of detachment. He slid a hand over his head to try to smooth his hair back down. "What are you doing here?"

She dipped her head down in a way that would've made Draco think she was shy if he didn't know her better. "You weren't at dinner."

"Wasn't hungry."

"Potter must not've been hungry either," she said as she raised an eyebrow, "because he also wasn't there."

By now, Draco was a master at concealing his emotions whenever someone mentioned Harry's name, which was practically all the time. Pansy was many things—mean-spirited, petty and cruel, with a penchant for finding weaknesses to pick out—and apparently smarter than Draco often gave her credit for.

Still, he doubted she would come to the correct conclusion on her own. She was always softer with Draco, always willing to listen to his side of the story, ready to accept whatever excuse he gave her for his actions. Through all the years, Pansy had always faithfully stood by his side.

In spite of that, he didn't trust her with the truth of his feelings for Harry. It was the one thing he had never told her, never told anyone. And would never—not with the amount of power he knew it would give someone over him.

He could only imagine what someone like Pansy would do with power like that, even if she was usually content to bend to Draco's will as easily as he could levitate a feather.

Pansy reached out tentatively and brushed her fingers against Draco's arm. "You're always so…agitated after seeing him. If you want, I could help. I could—"

"Just let me into the common room," he grumbled as he rolled his arm away from her.

He knew what she was suggesting, what she was offering. Long ago, when he had been deeper in denial of his feelings, when he had tried every way he knew how to convince himself to enjoy the attention girls heaped onto him, Pansy had been there.

And for a while, he could pretend that Harry Potter didn't exist, that it wasn't Harry whom he wished he was kissing, whose body he wished that he was getting the chance to explore.

He imagined Harry's skin would be rougher than Pansy's, standing firm against Draco's hands instead of molding underneath it. He imagined, instead, that he would be the one reshaped beneath the Chosen One.

He imagined, too, the sound of his name as it passed through the lips of the Boy Who Lived.

"Draco," Pansy whispered as she touched his arm again, and Draco, deep in fantasy, felt his resolve come undone.

He crushed his mouth against hers as he pushed her against the cold stone wall. This was familiar, too, the way her body quickly yielded to his touch. He knew exactly how she would gasp as he hitched her up, what noise she would make as he moved from her mouth to her neck.

But Draco didnotknow what her face would look like when his mouth took a break to call out the name on his heart: "Harry."

He knew she had heard him by the way her arms went slack from around his neck. Draco had but an instant to put some composure back into his face as she pulled away to look at him, her eyes wide with shock. "D-Did you just say 'Harry?'"

"No," Draco said immediately, definitively. He unclasped his hands to distract her as she hurried to regain her balance before she could hit the floor. He still wasn't sure how he could turn this around, but he knew how he could buy himself some time to figure it out: "What's the matter with you?"

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. Even now, Draco could see the wheels turning in her head the way it always did when she came across new information that she thought she could use as a weakness. "It's just that it sounded like—"

"I said 'hurry," he said, garbling the last word so it might actually pass off as a legitimate excuse. Draco tilted his head back toward the common room door. "You seemed to have forgotten that I gave you something to do. Or did you want to be seen by everyone in the castle?"

Embarrassment colored her face rose and Draco thought that Pansy looked much better in it than he would have. Still, Draco couldn't help the feeling of his own indignation—however misplaced and undeserved it was—as it rose up in his throat. "Tell me, Parkinson, what reason would I have toeversay something like that?"

He knew she wouldn't have an answer for him, not when the only answer he'd been able to come up with for that question was that he didn't deserve to. And this, Draco decided, was the best answer someone like him could ever hope for.

Draco startled to attention when he heard the door to the common room roll back. He hadn't realized Pansy had spoken the password, hadn't even realized that she had moved from in front of him. He didn't turn back to look at her as she said, "I could still…help you, if you wanted."

Draco decided that he didn't. In truth, he shouldn't have started this again after he'd unceremoniously cut her off in their sixth year. "It seems I've suddenly found my appetite," he said quietly.

"Draco," she called after him. "I-I'm sorry."

"It won't happen again." It wasn't a reassurance; it was a promise. Gone were the days of him seeking out Pansy to distract him from thinking about Harry. If this slip-up had been any indication, he was clearly past the point of being able to be distracted, and Draco thought himself to have been a fool for not realizing this sooner.

He felt he owed Pansy more of an explanation this time around, but to do so would be to alert her to the fact that there was more to this than she'd realized. And no one could know the truth about his feelings for Harry, even if that meant cutting off what little comfort he'd been able to find in her.

It was time he faced just how lonely it was to be Draco Malfoy.


End file.
